An exclusive sneak peek of the book Jessie Stephens couldn't put down.

This is an extract from Mother Tongue, by Naima Brown (Macmillan Australia).

One of her monitors must have sent a signal to someone that she was awake, because two nurses burst into her room in a flurry of pastel-green scrubs.

'Mrs. Mitchell,' one of them said as she pushed various buttons and checked various levels, 'you're awake!' 

The other nurse was speaking into the handset of a phone mounted to the wall, 'Paging Dr. Reyes, paging Dr. Reyes.'

Something about the way the nurses spoke felt peculiar to her ears; their words, their meaning, seemed to take a beat too long to land in her consciousness, and she became agitated, annoyed by the sensors and monitors connected to her body, by the catheter and the IV nutrient drip, the incessant humming and beeping.

She was in this agitated state when a handsome, grey-haired man who reminded her of Desi Arnaz entered the room and introduced himself as her doctor, Alfredo Reyes. His words, too, felt somehow distant, unfamiliar. 

'Jenny?' She finally managed to speak, the syllables dragging like gravel across her dry throat.

'Jenny is wonderful,' Dr. Reyes said. 'We've all become quite fond of her.'

'Ginger?'

'Ah! Your dog, the superhero! Yes, she is also wonderful.'

Still, his words seemed to be travelling to her from far away, like a staticky radio signal she was struggling to pick up. Was something wrong with her hearing? But she needed to know what had happened to her, how long she'd been here, so she asked, 'Qu'est-ce qu'il m'est arrivé?' And then her hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened. What had she just said? Dr. Reyes looked at her with gentle inquisitiveness. She tried again, 'Que m'est il arrivé?'

'French?' he asked, a smile in his eyes.

She nodded yes. She didn't know why, or how, but she knew the answer to his question was yes. 'Oui, merci,' she said. And once again her eyes went wide and her hand flew to her mouth, as if it might catch the curious butterflies that were flying out of her, examine them, and then set them free.

'My French is not very good,' he said before slowly, in broken French, explaining that she was in the neurosurgery unit at Elderpool General. She had suffered a serious brain injury, and she'd had to have emergency brain surgery to relieve swelling. She'd been in an induced coma for six weeks. It had been touch and go for some time. She'd missed Christmas and New Year. It was 2013! They were planning to try to bring her out of the coma in four more days, but she decided to come back early. Welcome! Luckily, no permanent damage was done to her spinal cord and she was expected to make a full recovery, mobility wise.

But, it seemed, she must have sustained damage to the portion of her brain which governed language; he would have to run some tests, but it seemed as if she had what was commonly referred to as Foreign Language Syndrome, but medically referred to as bilingual aphasia.

'Don't worry,' he'd said — T'inquiète pas — 'it won't last. You'll be back to English in no time. My advice: enjoy it!'

She was aware that, even in his error-ridden French, his words had come through with ringing clarity.

'Bon,' she said. And then they'd smiled at each other.

Brynn sensed that she was medically exciting to Dr. Reyes, and that he was delighted at the prospect of her — what had he called it? — Foreign Language Syndrome?

For her part, she'd been astonished. And then amused. And then wildly, unnervingly happy, and immediately understood it for what it was: a token — a souvenir — from the Field of Now. She had slipped into a new skin after all.

Merci, she said inwardly, merci, merci, merci. It was only after she had allowed herself a long moment to bask in the warm, golden glow of this remnant of her time out of time that she thought to ask, 'Et Eric?' 

***

Eric and Jenny had visited Brynn in the hospital a few hours after she woke up, but when Brynn's first words upon seeing her daughter's wide-eyed face had been Salut, bébé — and then, to Eric: Bonjour, chérie — she couldn't pretend she didn't see them recoil, Eric in disgust, Jenny in confusion.

Her parents — Salut, Maman, Papa — hadn't reacted much better. They'd stood like vampires at her hospital room door, requiring a proper English invitation before they could enter. It never came. 

Brynn quickly discovered that she could still speak English, but it was effortful, required mental translation, and was heavily accented. Dr. Reyes had joined them in her room, lollipops in his coat pocket for Jenny, and explained Brynn's condition. Eric scowled and stared at the floor, and had no questions beyond how long it would last; a question for which Dr. Reyes had no answer. She couldn't tell what annoyed Eric more: the French, or the French-accented English.

The next day, she was greeted by a very bubbly and overly caffeinated physical therapist, Valerie.

'Bonjour!' Valerie said, her enthusiasm making up for her comical butchering of the word: Banjur!

'We are all so excited about you!' Valerie said, rubbing her hands together in a let's get to work fashion.

One of her first exercises with Valerie was to walk to the small bathroom and manage her own needs, a prerequisite for going home. She took small, careful steps in her sock feet, Valerie's hand on her elbow: and there she was in the mirror. It was the first time she'd seen herself in just over six weeks, and what she saw alarmed her.

'Mon Dieu,' she whispered as she took in her shorn head. Gone were her magnificent auburn curls, and the new growth coming through seemed lacklustre and wiry. She traced the long arc of the scar — still raised and hot pink — which ran along the right side of her head. She'd lost weight, and looked gaunt. But the more she looked at herself, the more she saw something else shimmering behind her injuries. Something stalwart and brave, steady and immovable, seemed to glow from within her.

It's me, she thought — because she recognised someone in that glow, someone she hadn't seen for years. It was the Brynn from before The Song. The Brynn she'd been before she made herself small. The Brynn who still believed that she might have a purpose in this life.

''Allo,' she said to the mirror, and winked.

Mother Tongue, by Naima Brown, $34.99, is available now.

Mother Tongue, by Naima Brown. Image: Supplied.

Feature image: Supplied.